


Talking In My Sleep

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [225]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Caretaking, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, M/M, mild dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-15 12:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17528906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Q never drinks. Well, not like this, not here: straight from the bottle and right at his desk.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: See, I'm not too drunk, I can still take my clothes off. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

Q never drinks. Well, not like this, not here: straight from the bottle and right at his desk. It’s after six o’clock, to be fair, and it’s not as if he’s imbibing in front of his subordinates; there’s only the three monitors on his desk and the chipped Dalek figurine propped between them to witness his shame.

And it isn’t shame, really. It’s grief. It’s an unnavigable sadness that ten years in the business of keeping Her Majesty’s agents alive have yet to teach him how to quell.

002 is dead. Long live 002.

The man was an ass, sometimes, a living thorn in Q’s proverbial side. He was sharp as hell, no doubt; he never needed info in a briefing to be repeated, always asked the sort of questions that could stump even the most well-prepared briefer. But he was arrogant in the way agents sometimes are, an arrogance not unearned but the sort that, if poorly managed, could cause one to overstep. Could cause on to get ambushed on a sidewalk in Santiago and end up very, very dead.

That it had happened at all was a hard blow. That it had happened on Q’s watch, while he was tracking the man’s comms was devastating.

There’d been the initial shock, then the sinking sense of horror. Then the godawful trek up to M’s office for what the man himself called a debrief but what'd felt much more like a verbal disemboweling: _how could this happen what were you thinking this is utterly unacceptable, Q._

 _I know_ , Q had said in his head over and over during the whole long terrible tongue lashing. _I know I know I know_

When he’d been allowed to retreat at last, he’d been to numb to speak to anyone, too dumbstruck to climb up to the street and make his way towards safety, towards home, and so he’d ended up in his cubbyhole of an office, hiding behind his screens with the door bolted and drinking mercurial gin.

 _An hour of this_ , he’d told himself sternly as he’d reached for the bottle, a half-forgotten gift from some holiday party; he’d had to dig for it among the clutter of his bottom drawer. _An hour of this, and no more._

It’s been far more than that. He knows that now. The bottle’s much too light in his hand and he’s properly sloshed. Curling up on the floor beneath his desk and closing his eyes seems like a capital idea.

There will be no funeral, state or otherwise. They have people on the ground, of course, chaps who will ensure the man’s cremated and his ashes shipped somewhere or dumped somewhere. God only knows. It’s the sort of fate that awaits all of his agents should they be so unlucky as to die out there on the line. Q’s sure they’ve all accepted it, in their own way, the notion that their death will go unnoticed, the circumstances unknown even by those who love them, should there be any left. They’re stone cold that way, his agents, ever and always shadowed by and bringers of death.

They may be used it. He’s not.

He lays his head on the desk. The scarred wood is cool on his forehead, his cheek. It’s only then that he knows there are tears.

002 hadn’t even known it was coming, hadn’t had the opportunity to cry out for help or in pain. A single shot to the back of the neck, that was the prevailing theory. By now, the readout of the man’s final reported vitals would’ve borne that out. He could ring over to pathology and find out. But what difference did it make, really? He’d still heard the man’s last hiss of breath and the weird silence that followed, a silence filled only by Q’s own voice growing frantic, calling for 002 again as the sounds of the street filled his ears, the blast of traffic on a far-away street:

 _002, please respond._  
_Comm check, 002. Report.  
God, please, 002. Report._

The gin is thick in his throat now and his head hurts, the sort of ache that dampens everything but the beat of his heart.

 _Report.  
_ _Report._

It’s his fault. He knows that it isn’t. The man is still dead.

Q doesn’t realize that he’s no longer alone until he feels a hand on his back, a broad weight that sinks in and stays.

 _Q_ , Bond says quietly. _Are you all right?_

There’s such kindness in the question, in the rough silk of Bond’s voice, that new tears slip from his eyes. He can’t answer. Not in words. It’s all he can do to shake his head.

_I heard what happened. I’m so sorry._

Q takes a deep, shaking breath. Turns his cheek enough to speak. _He’s dead, James._

 _I know._ That big hand slips up to stroke his neck, like he’s a child in need of soothing. _I know._

Somewhere, in the part of him that’s not drowning in juniper, Q wonders how Bond found him, how he knew to come looking. Why, exactly, his behavior is so solicitous and kind. They’ve never been friends, he and 007, but he’s always respected the man, perhaps even admired him: few agents last 20 years in the service; even fewer have only improved with age. But Bond’s never lingered after a briefing, never made a point before of seeking him out. What’s all this about, then?

But the rest of him, most of him, doesn’t give a damn why Bond is here. He’s just grateful for it.

 _Why don’t you let me take you home?_ Bond says. A question, but not. _I think you’ve had enough for the day, don’t you?_

He look up, his head suddenly heavy. _Would you?_

Bond chuckles, a soft, mirthless sound. _You don’t look ready to fight the Tube this evening, old boy. Yes, I’d be happy to._

The journey from his desk to the garage, to the front seat of Bond’s car, is a blur, the familiar halls and walls of the lift filtered through static. He feels top heavy and hot, even though he’s holding his coat. The only thing that keeps him upright is Bond’s arm. It starts about his shoulders and then falls to his back until it locks around his waist, a firm cord keeping him perpendicular to the ground.

 _There we are_ , Bond says at last, closing the driver’s door with a thud. _Put your seatbelt on, Q. There’s a good lad._

It’s dark outside, the sort of autumn dark that makes the streetlights look streaky; the crosswalks and pedestrians, too. It’s much easier, then, to lay his head back and close his eyes, to feel the rush of air from the vents crawl up his cheeks and dry the last of his tears, than to keep staring out at the night, at the loads of people moving about as if nothing has changed, as if the world is quite normal, as if a man whose job it was to keep it that way hadn’t that very day died.

 _Q_ , Bond says, somewhere. Q feels a squeeze on his knee. _You’re talking to yourself, I think._

 _I am not_ , Q says from behind his eyelids. _I’m only talking in my sleep._

Bond laughs, a real one this time, and squeezes his knee once again. _Does that mean I’m in your dream?_

Q sighs, turns his forehead to the window. _Only once or twice_ , he says. _Didn’t mean anything._

He drifts off then, he must, because the next thing he knows, the car has stopped and his door is open. Bond’s leaning across to unbelt him from his seat.

 _You smell good_ , Q hears himself say.

 _Do I?_ A click, a slip back of pressure. _Well. That’s a relief._

He bundles Q from the car and they trudge up the street, up the stairs and across the landing. 

_What’s the code?_

_Hmm_?

_The code, Q. To get into your building._

_Ah_ , Q says. He tips out of Bond’s grip and reaches for the panel. _I’ve got it._

 _I should hope so,_ Bond says. He steps up behind Q’s back, a brace, as Q punches the numbers. _You are the one who lives here, after all._

 _Wait_ , Q says once they’re inside, once he’s leaning against the wall beside his front door. _How do you know where I live?_

Bond's hand is in Q’s coat, digging around in his right pocket. _Never mind that. I_ _thought you said they were in here._

 _No, no_ , Q says. _Other side. Other right._

Bond gives him a look. _You could just fetch them for me._

 _Can’t_. Q raises his fingers, wiggles them about in the air. _See? Hands don’t work. Drunk._

A snort. A lean in and a fumble in Q's left pocket. _Yes, you are. You smell like you showered in it._

Q closes his eyes and breathes in, smiles when Bond at last snags his keys. _You smell good_.

 _Yes, darling_ , Bond says breezily. _So you said._

Inside, it’s dark and Bond can’t find the light switch. It’s good.

 _Don’t need light_ , Q says. He leans into Bond’s side. _Rather have it dark._

_That’s going to make it rather difficult for me to help you, though, isn’t it?_

_Help me what?_

_Help you to bed._

It isn’t what he means, it isn’t, even Q’s soused brain knows that, but--

_I like that._

_Like what?_ Bond bumps into a side table and grunts, pulls Q to him as he stumbles. _Ah, damn!_

Q slings an arm around Bond’s neck, breathes: _You helping me to bed_. _You in my bedroom. You in my bed._

He can hear himself. He can taste what he's saying, feel the sharp intake of Bond’s breath. But it’s as if he’s underwater, watching, and not saying, not doing these things himself.

The words are very quiet. _You’re drunk._

 _I know_ , Q says. _You think I don’t know that?_   _Yes, thank you._ _I know I’m fucking trashed, James_.

Bond makes a strange little sound. _That’s the second time tonight that you’ve done that._

_What?_

_Called me by my given name._

_Oh_. Q blinks. _Does that bother you?_

 _No._ Bond’s long fingers find the waist of Q’s trousers, lace in and hold on tight. _Quite the opposite, I’m afraid._

_Afraid? Why?_

_You’re drunk_. The same words, but different now. Weighted down with something like shadow. _You’re drunk and you’re upset, Q. You don’t know what you’re doing_.

 _Know exactly what_ , Q says. He reels a little and Bond catches him, his hands warm and strong through Q’s sweater vest, his shirt. _Know exactly exactly._

Bond shudders, his breath sudden hot over Q’s chin. _Oh god_ , he says. _You have no idea how much I wish that were true._

Q feels reckless and Q is hurting and there is no more gin, no more bottle to hide in. There’s only this, only the circle of Bond’s arms, the promise of his mouth, and the rest of the world be fucking damned.

 _Kiss me_ , Q whispers. _I want you to._

_No._

_James_. He lets the sound linger on his tongue, tips it gently against the turn of Bond’s cheek. _Please._


	2. Chapter 2

_Q, I--_

He breathes in the scent of Bond’s skin: expensive aftershave and thin cigarettes. _Please_.

Blunt fingers in his hair then, a half-soothing stroke. _If you want me to stay with you, I’ll stay_ , Bond murmurs. _I don’t need any sweetener._

 _I dream about your mouth._ There’s something thick in Q's throat now, something that’s making him shiver. _I dream about you holding me down and kissing me until I can’t think and I don’t want to think anymore today, ever. I can’t, James. I can’t._ A sob slips out. There’s nowhere to hide it. _It hurts and I want it to stop. Can you make it stop? I need you to--_

 _Oh, Q._ His voice is rough; his hands incredibly gentle, guiding. _God, sweetheart. Come here._

It’s only a matter of millimeters, the smallest of shifts, and then Bond’s mouth is sliding over his, saltwater and all, and Bond’s holding him close, the heat of his body curling through the confines of his coat, and there’s nothing for Q to do but hang on.

Except he’s the one who licks at Bond’s lips, who teases out the length of Bond’s tongue, who tips his head back into Bond’s grip and moans when Bond pulls him back.

 _Like that?_ Bond whispers. _Is that what you like? Being chased?_

Q shudders, claws at the back of Bond’s neck. _James._

 _I’m right here, darling_.

 _Don’t stop_.

There comes a time when they move, when the pitch press of the hall gives way to soft gray dark, to soft sheets, to the soft trail of Bond’s mouth down his neck and over his chest. There comes a time when Bond’s arms are bare, when Q can touch the scars on his back, when they both gasp at the feel of skin against skin. There comes a time when Q is hard in his trousers, when the gentle rut of Bond’s hips over his is nearly too much to take. He pulls at Bond’s grip, harder now, big hands turned perfectly over Q’s wrists, and arches his back, his half of their kiss going slack.

 _When you dream about me_ , Bond says in his ear, _when I hold you down, do you come?_

_Oh, god._

The rough brush of a grin. _That’s not much of an answer_.

_Yes. Oh, fuck, yes. Sometimes._

_Sometimes?_

S _ometimes_ , _I don’t in the dream but I wake up hard and I have to, I have to--_

_What do you have to do, Q?_

_Mmmm. Stroke my cock, squeeze it, like you would with your mouth._

Bond bites at his neck. _You think I would, huh? Maybe I’d rather tease you. Lick you until you were begging. Or maybe I’d rather watch you jerk yourself off._

His head flies back and it’s empty, emptied of all except the hum of Bond’s voice, the unrelenting strength of his body. _James--!_

_What? That’s it, go on._

_Touch me._

_No_ , Bond says, sweet and vicious. _Why should I? You’re going to come for me anyway, aren’t you?_

He hears a sound like something it’s dying and it’s him, it’s him, he’s alive--002 is dead and he’s still alive and Bond’s holding him, kissing him, speaking soft against his throat:

_That’s it, that’s it, sweetheart. Let me have it. Let it all out._

He’s alive and he’s safe and he’s crying, fat, hot tears that rake down his cheeks and pitch over his chin and Bond is brushing them away with his lips, with a kiss.

 _Q_ , Bond murmurs. _Oh, jesus. You’re all right. It’s all right._

 _I know_ , Q says for the ten thousandth time that day; for the first time, he means it. _I know I know. I know._

He lets Bond peel his trousers away, his socks, the sticky ruin of his pants. Lets him wipe away the mess with a warm flannel and kiss the sink of his stomach, the thin turn of his ribs.

 _You’re beautiful_ , Bond says.

Q’s sleepy fingers slip over Bond’s hair. _You’re too far away_. _Come up here._

Bond catches his wrist and kisses the palm of his hand. _I thought you’d never ask_.


	3. Chapter 3

Q wakes up with his head in a sling, slung, a rock hanging from the back of his skull. His eyes ache; they’ll barely open. They don’t have to. Because there’s a scratch at his back, a warm, giving weight, and before the horror of his hangover can crest, Bond is kissing his neck, gentle blooms of his mouth that soften the sick feeling of yesterday’s gin.

 _Good morning_ , Bond says. His palm is resting on Q’s hip, fingers curled over, possessive.

 _Is it?_ he mumbles.

_Are you feeling poorly?_

_I feel_ , Q says, _as if someone’s run me over with a lorry and then backed up for good measure_.  _Twice._

_That well, eh?_

He closes his eyes again, retreats from the blare of bloody daylight. _Blergh_.

_Shall I leave you be, then?_

The question’s light but its meaning is not; even through his headache, his own waves of self-pity, Q can feel how still Bond’s gone, the lines of that beautiful body all at once tense, and for all that he feels like brightly-lit garbage, he can’t stand the idea of hurting Bond. He’d asked and Bond had stayed, even though there had to have been a hundred other things more pleasant of an evening than nursing Q through a sloshy ocean of grief, than listening to him babble on about fantasies he’d had and then indulged them; this was Bond in his bed, James, the man who’d not only stayed but apparently held him all through the night and now awakening in the fog of yesterday was so much less awful than it might’ve been if Bond had let him navigate the pain of it alone.

He’s never thought about loving James Bond but in this moment, with 007 curled around him, willingly holding back the rest of world, Q can’t imagine why it’s only just occurred.

He lifts his arm and reaches back, squeezes the tight line of Bond’s thigh. _No. Please don’t_.

Bond makes a low, soft sound. His hips shift. _Then I won’t._

In time, there will be tea and aspirin and half-hearted toast, a proper chat around Q’s kitchen table. In time, they will decide who they are to one another and what, precisely, the last twelve hours have meant. In time, Q will look into Bond’s eyes and take his measure and Bond will do the same and in time, Q feels almost bloody certain, there will be for the both of them love.

For now, though, it’s enough for Q to lean his head back on Bond’s shoulder and kiss him, for Bond to groan good and proper and wrap his arms around Q’s body, for his thumbs to stroke the pale skin of Q’s stomach, for him to stiffen in his shorts and press against the curve of Q’s ass. It’s different than the night before, better, because now, freed from the scrim of his drunken haze, Q can appreciate all of it, all of Bond: the way his breath stutters when their tongues touch, the heat of his skin, the way arousal turns his words into a slurry.

 _Oh, god_ , Bond mutters. _You have no idea how much I want you_.

Q digs his nails into Bond’s thigh, pants into the hot valley of Bond’s mouth. _I’m fairly sure that you have me._

 _Fairly_?  
  
_Mmmm._ A smile. It feels like his first proper one in ages. _But perhaps you should take your pants off just so I can be sure_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this is finished now. Honest.


End file.
